


budding

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [15]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, CPTSD, Depression, Derealization, Emotional triggers, Fluff, Gen, Irritability, Panic Attacks, Self-Hatred, mental health talk, sad bastard commander gets read for filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: A new leaf cannot be grown on the buried remains of the old one.Or, the commander is made to face the fact that he has reactions to things.
Relationships: Trahearne/Male Player Character (Guild Wars) (mentioned)
Series: roza [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30





	budding

**Author's Note:**

> warning: this contains a detailed description of an ongoing panic attack so if you think that may be triggering, please watch out! <3

“Why do you keep coming back here to visit me?” Laranthir asks.

Roza slowly tips his head. The ever-present breeze in the Grove greets him, sweet and mild. Caledon is temperate no matter the season, which is something he used to dislike, but finds he does not mind as much now. “I miss you,” he says easily, and it is not a lie.

Laranthir looks at him as if he can see right through him. The world seems quiet around them, the backgrounded noises weaving into each other and drowning themselves out. Roza tries a smile.

“Alright. But please don’t lie at me,” Laranthir replies.

Roza drops the smile.

~*~

“By the Mother Tree around us.” Laranthir casts his eyes upwards, as if searching for an answer in her arching boughs. “Who nearby is _starving?_ I can barely concentrate.”

Starving? “Oh,” Roza realizes. “That is me. I am just a little hungry.”

Laranthir shoots him a look that makes him want to avert his eyes in discomfort from the sentiment it holds. He does not. “A little hungry? I feel as if my insides are tearing me apart.”

Roza shrugs one shoulder in a non-answer. And so what if it gnaws? It helps him remember that he exists within the world.

“Roza.” Laranthir looks concerned. “Have you been eating well?”

“Thank you for your mothering,” Roza remembers to roll his eyes, “But it is unnecessary. I can assure you that I am perfectl—”

He cuts off, eyelids fluttering as his gaze falls away. Laranthir’s—irritating, worried—frown deepens.

“Apologies.” Roza quietly clears his throat. “I have been feeling… less present, as of late. There is nothing to be concerned about. The hunger will go away if I ignore it.”

“You are absolutely terrible. We’re getting food.” Despite the teasing nature of the words, Laranthir’s tone is short, and he does not add on a smile. He takes Roza’s arm without asking—just a light touch above his wrist, enough to barely hold him—and leads him away. Roza would normally protest, but for some reason he cannot find it in himself right now. He has been feeling… so mellow as lately. So quiet.

He has apologized to Canach, made up with Rytlock and Braham, and tried to be there for the others. Shouldn’t that help? He is on a path to becoming a better person for a reason. Why does he feel as if his world is fading away more than it is coming back?

Perhaps he has not yet paid his penance. That is fine.

“Did you know that I am leucistic?” he tells Laranthir absently.

It earns him yet another quick, worried shift of dark eyes, which makes annoyance flare up for a brief second. No. He tamps down on it.

“What does that mean?” asks Laranthir. Not, _I did not know you were ill_.

“That I get sick easily, mostly,” Roza replies. He watches the world around them change, bowing and bending as they travel upwards. Laranthir is taking him to somewhere he has not yet been. He has not been to many places in the Grove. “And apparently weary, although I do not notice it. I cannot photosynthesize properly.”

Laranthir glances at him again, and then automatically up at the sky. “We are going into the upper boughs,” he says. “You will get your sun.”

Annoyance, again. “I did not—”

He stops, again. The careful press of his tongue against his teeth, and Roza says, “Apologies. I did not mean to incite sympathy. I was… simply thinking out loud.”

Laranthir does not answer. He leads him through the noise and chatter until they reach a quaint little shop, formed from round, dark bark with large yellow petals arching overhead. _Sunflower’s Embrace_ , a small sign near the door reads.

“The owner told me this place was inspired by human breakfast cafés,” Laranthir informs him. Roza tugs them towards a small table near a window-like opening at the back of the shop—as far as he can tell, it is the one that is the most visibly isolated from the others. Only one other person appears to be inside. “It, ah. Only serves breakfast. But the moa omelets are quite good.”

Roza opens his mouth to reply. A coral pink sylvari runs up to them before he can, her hands clasped together with an impatient eagerness. “Laranthir!” she says. “It’s good to see you here again.”

Roza watches her with hooded eyes. They have not even sat down.

“Cleonie,” Laranthir greets with a smile. “It is good to be here. I will have the regular, of course, and spring nectar if you have it.”

“I’ll bring you the jug!” she chirps, returning the smile brightly. “And your friend?”

Roza pauses deliberately before answering. “Moa omelet,” he says flatly. “Two.”

“Of course! Right away.” She ducks her head, giving Laranthir one last shy glance before scurrying away.

Roza watches her go, unimpressed. “You should find a new place to eat,” he says as Laranthir sits. He beckons until Roza joins him. “She is interested in you.”

Laranthir raises an eyebrow. “I know,” he replies. “ _I_ can tell when that happens. But she is sweet—it is partly why I picked this place.”

Roza frowns. “She is too young. And naïve.”

“Let me stop you before you start picking apart her traits from a ten second interaction.” Laranthir sounds as if he is trying not to be amused. “She is _sweet_ , Roza.”

Roza’s frown turns to the table. “She is not mature enough for you. You deserve someone better.”

“Luckily, I am not constantly awaiting your approval, elsewise I would be by my lonesome forever.” Laranthir’s small smile saps the heat from his words. “Now hush your complaints. Let me tell you how I have been spending my leave while we wait for the food.”

Roza tries to listen as he speaks. He finds himself losing some of the words, but it is because his eyes catch on Laranthir’s smile, or the shine of his eyes, or how animated he is in his gestures. He is… alright, then. That is good. Roza is… That is good, that he is happy. Although hopefully the girl will leave him alone before they get serious enough, or Roza will have to—gently, fine—have a strict talk with her.

Their food arrives. Laranthir raises his hands with an _Ah!_ Roza stares at Cleonie as she hands them their plates, not blinking. She smiles nervously, tosses Laranthir one final bright remark, and hurries away.

“Bye bye,” Roza mutters at her back.

Laranthir pokes him with his fork. He blinks, and looks back to dry, amused eyes. “My dear overzealous guard dog. Eat your food—it is best hot.”

Roza takes a slow bite as Laranthir pours the nectar, staring idly at the eggs and greens on the plate across from his. He supposes it is alright. Fine, it is… good, if one likes moa egg. Roza is impartial to it, he has mysteriously just decided. He may eat more.

Laranthir shakes his head with a smile, as if he can guess at his thoughts. “Your cantankerousness will fade with a full stomach,” he says. “Every last morsel, Roza. I am watching.”

Roza mutters at that under his breath, but begrudgingly shoves another bite into his mouth. And then another. Laranthir smiles as his reluctance fades, and when he is satisfied with his pace, digs in himself.

By the time they have finished eating, Roza is feeling surprisingly replenished. The food _is_ good, and the nectar is fresh and pleasantly clear.

“There we are,” Laranthir says with a smile. Roza tentatively returns it. “Now come, tell me truthfully: Was there really no other reason for your visit? I understand if you came here to take a break.”

Roza shrugs. “I might have,” he says. “But I did mostly just want to see you. This place is… a vision of the past. You are also of the past, but… the less awful parts.”

Laranthir’s smile gentles. “The past is not always a bad place to dwell,” he offers.

Roza looks away at that, shaking his head. “It holds nothing for me but painful memories.” Even at the thought, his eyes warm. He cools them almost absently, pre-emptively watching his breathing.

Laranthir either notices or senses his discomfort. “Will you go to speak with Mother?” he asks, easily changing the subject. “She told me she misses you.”

Roza curls his hand carefully. “I haven’t talked to her directly in… a while.”

It is fine. Just—Mother. He can talk about Mother.

Laranthir tilts his head. “She mentioned it has been a few years,” he says, not accusingly.

“It has been—since after…” Roza swallows hard. “Since… before Balthazar.”

And even that feels like so long ago now. He looks down, pressing his fingers against each other.

“I see,” Laranthir says quietly, and the words all but jettison Roza into the recesses of his memory. “It may not hurt, just dropping by and saying hello. I am certain she would be glad to speak with you no matter how short the conversation.”

Roza works his jaw, trying to keep it from clamping. “She told you—she missed me. But she never noticed me much… before. I think, after Trahearne died, she was…” And it is hard now, to keep his breathing even, but he presses in on his body until it obeys him. “… trying to have me replace him.”

He is slowly losing his inner battle. His hands are starting to shake, even with the pressure. His breaths are shortening and he _forces_ them to even out, although it makes his throat hurt. Although it doesn’t quite work.

Laranthir’s head raises, just by a centimeter. He opens his mouth to speak; the barest parting of his lips, but Roza continues.

“And if I go back to see her,” he says, “I don’t know what sh—what she will—”

The shaking is getting worse. He curses internally, pressing his nails into the soft bark of his palm. No. Not now. Not with so simple a topic as this.

“Close your eyes,” Laranthir says. His hands move to cover Roza’s, warm and steady. “That’s it. Focus on my touch. Just that and nothing else, and it will become easier to breathe.”

Roza obeys, even as his mind is screaming a litany of accusations at him. _Too weak too much make it stop_ , it wails, and he focuses on the warmth of the hands around his, trying to shut everything else out.

The thoughts gradually fade out. _Too weak_ stays.

His eyes flutter open. “I am an imposition here,” he croaks. “To you.”

Laranthir shakes his head. He makes to speak, but is interrupted by a sudden loud clatter of noise. Roza startles violently.

“Laranthir!” Cleonie bursts in from nowhere. “Is everything alright? I felt something _bad_ , and I thought, oh dear! I had better check to see if… you are…”

She takes them in, gaze flitting first to their hands, and then to Roza, whose entire body is tense as a bowstring.

“… safe,” she finishes faintly. She takes an unconscious step back.

 _“Go away,”_ Roza growls.

She yelps and flees the room, crashing into a table but steadying herself on her way out. Roza bows his head, face creasing.

“Look at her run from me as if I am some dangerous creature,” he tells the tablecloth bitterly. “I hate coming back here. I hate being around other sylvari. I hate their laughter, and their joy, and their—their _accusations_.”

His voice is shaking. “Roza,” Laranthir says, squeezing his hands.

He yanks them away, curling his nails. “And they are right, too. Look at how quickly that happened. What is wrong with me? Why am I here bothering _you?_ You should not have to deal with me. You should be grieving.”

Laranthir’s expression falls lax. “Roza, please let me speak.”

“But you are not,” Roza continues with a grimace. “You are stuck here with _me_ , taking care of _me_. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be doing all of this for me. I do not deserve it. I do not…”

“Enough of that.” Laranthir’s tone is mild, but scolding. It makes acrid memory rise in Roza’s throat. “It is my decision whether or not I want to help someone. You are my friend, Roza, no matter what you may think of yourself. I cannot just let you suffer alone.”

“Can’t you?” Roza’s lip curls. “No, you are right. You have always overreached more than you should, Laranthir. You have no sense of self-preservation. Other people are not your responsibility. I was not—”

He closes his eyes. “I… _am_ not,” he restates, although it is too late, “Your responsibility.”

Laranthir’s chin lifts in realization. “Ah,” he says. “Is that what this is about?”

Roza chokes out some jagged shard from his throat. “You were too nice to me,” he replies. His voice is shaking again. “I… I was manipulative, and cruel, and I purposefully took advantage of your kindness. You should not have been so compassionate. You should have been harsher to me.”

Laranthir’s eyes soften. “You truly were not that bad. And I would have hurt you had I been any harsher. You were so young and vulnerable.”

“So what?” Roza snaps. “Maybe I needed to be treated less kindly. You are allowed to yell at people, Laranthir. You are allowed to stand up for yourself. If they are treating you unfairly, or if they are being—if they are being _racist,_ thorns, the whole Mordremoth—"

“Roza,” Laranthir interrupts curtly.

Roza closes his eyes, dropping his head to the table. He draws in a shaky breath. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but he holds it back. If Laranthir is angry with him, it does not matter. Roza is telling him this because he cares about him. Because he…

“I am sorry,” he mumbles into the tablecloth. The scent of fresh foliage rises in his nostrils. “That was too far.”

He barely feels a hand brush against his branches. “Thank you. I… understand where you are coming from. But some things are not so simple, I’m afraid. Sometimes it is wise to not engage.”

Roza’s exhale flutters a tendril on the cloth that has come undone. “Inactivity is not wisdom,” he returns. “Ah, is there not… ‘Act with wisdom, but act.’”

Laranthir’s hand stills. “You,” he says flatly, “Of all people, are quoting a Tenet at me to berate me?”

Roza raises his head once more, noting his tone. “If you want to be angry at me, be angry, Laranthir,” he says, even as his stomach trips. “Come on. You must have something to say, after all these years. There must be some seed of resentment in you. Deep down.”

Laranthir meets his eyes with a steady gaze. “I will not be party to your self-flagellation.”

Roza’s stomach plummets. “What?” he says hoarsely.

“You are goading me,” Laranthir replies. His posture is straight, his words calm. “That is why you are turning this onto me. You are trying to make me angry at you because you cannot justify the emotion within yourself.”

Roza’s breathing quickens. “What are you…”

Laranthir leans forwards. “You think all anger you experience has to be directed inwards,” He taps the table, “towards yourself. Because if it is not, that means _you_ are not in the wrong. You have to acknowledge that you have been hurt. By your life, by strangers, by people you care about.”

Roza’s hands are shaking again. He swallows, trying to wrench open his throat to let words escape. “I’m—not…” he manages.

Laranthir gives him a small, pained smile, and Roza wants to _scream_ at it. “You are allowed to be angry with Mother,” comes next, and the scream dies.

It is hard to breathe. He does not know what to… what to…

“You are allowed to be angry with me as well, or even Trahearne, may the stars guide him. Or with anyone who failed to help you when you needed it. With any of your friends, with the world itself.” Laranthir raises his hands, indicating their surroundings with a sweeping gesture. “Look at how they all rely on you, how they rely on this image of strength they have projected onto you. Is that fair? Is it fair that you are forced to keep putting aside your needs and emotions to deal with someone else’s problem?”

“I have to,” Roza chokes out. His vision is blurring. “Or else it will all—overwhelm me. And I will be wretched, like people say I am. I will fall into despair. Into Nightmare. And Trahearne isn’t here anymore to—”

He can barely get any more words out. All that escapes his throat are the ragged gasps of a dying man. The world is fading.

“Do not try to push your way through this,” he hears Laranthir say, distantly. “It will make it worse. Let yourself calm down.”

Roza feels himself say, “I don’t know what—you’re talking about.” His hands are shaking again. He tries to fold them tog—

Laranthir covers them with his own. “Stop,” he says. “Breathe.”

 _It’s not that simple!_ Roza wants to cry out. He can’t. He can’t breathe. He _can’t_.

“Roza.” Laranthir’s voice breaches the fog. “You’re having a panic attack. It will pass.”

That breaks through a little more. “I’m _not_ —”

“You are.” And just that bare bit of indignance, the faintest hint of offense, is enough to make Roza cling onto the world with a little more strength. “You have had them for years. You had them when I first met you, in fact. Do not try to ignore it or shove it down. I am here. Let me help.”

Roza makes a noise that in some sane reality could pass as a sob. “Please help me,” he chokes.

“You are safe.” Laranthir’s hands are warm, and _they_ do not shake like his own do. “You are with me. Do you feel this?” They squeeze.

Roza nods. “Good,” he hears, low and soothing. “Do you think you can try and slow your breathing?”

 _Now in again. I know it’s hard_. Roza wheezes out a laugh that sounds more like a dying fern hound. His chest starts to heave again.

“Thorns,” he doesn’t register Laranthir muttering. “Alright, we can ride it out. I am here with you.”

Roza closes his eyes. Now is not then, and he knows how to deal with this. He flips his hands, seeking Laranthir’s and squeezing them. During the rare moments this happened with Trahearne, this is what they did. His marshal never once complained about the strength of his grip, which had to be strong enough that his fingers would not scrabble. He would simply speak, low and even, talking to Roza about necromancy, or Pact matters, or some subject he could never remember afterwards. There words were vacant, but his gravelly voice was always an anchoring point Roza could rely on.

Thinking about Trahearne—how gentle he felt—helps. Roza opens his eyes, and they are warm and teary, but he is calmer. He blinks carefully, letting his head fall. He can feeling exhaustion tugging at his energy, waiting to topple him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He realizes he is holding Laranthir’s hands in a death grip that must be painful, and he releases them. His own are trembling still, but they will relax, he knows. “That—should not have happened.”

“Do not apologize for that.” Laranthir sounds concerned again, and Roza has enough of himself left to give him a weak smile. “Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Roza says simply. His breathing is still jittering, but less with each slow breath, and he knows it too will pass. He gives in to his weariness, letting it seep into his body.

After a long minute, he says, “Laranthir, I truly am sorry for worrying you. Thank you for helping me—you are a good friend, and I know I do not appreciate you enough.”

Laranthir gives him a perturbed look. “Perhaps you should… try and relax for another minute,” he says. “Just to be cautious.”

Roza almost chuckles at his reaction—it is so similar to Canach’s—but he is too tired. He bobs his head instead, letting his eyelids fall as heavily as they wish.

Laranthir gently pats his hands before reaching for the jug of nectar. He pours some into Roza’s cup, and then nudges it towards him.

“Drink,” he says simply. “I fear if I do not tell you what to do you will simply stay here and waste away.”

“It is a possibility,” Roza muses. He takes the glass, swirling it idly before sipping at it.

It helps some. Roza finishes it slowly, gaze roaming around the room. There is not much décor; the shop must be fairly new. The furnishings are plain but pretty, shaped mostly from green vines and large, loose petals. He can see why Laranthir likes it here.

“It has been happening more often lately.” He speaks to the open window, not bothering to specify. “I do not know why.”

Laranthir hums. “Perhaps now that you have a moment to breathe, your mind has stopped putting it all on hold,” he offers cautiously. “I know coming here made me realize how… little time I had given myself to process things.”

Roza nods. That makes sense. “I do not think I gave myself a break when I needed it the most. After… after Trahearne, I mean. I think I was afraid to crash and burn.”

He glances down and then back, and Laranthir is wearing a prudent smile. “Speaking of Trahearne… someone has been leaving flowers by his memorial,” he says.

Roza huffs out a laugh. “Yes. Roses are hard to find, but he gave me my name, so I thought I could… give it back to him. Is that utterly inane, do you think?”

His voice waters, but he lets it, making himself smile through it. Laranthir’s eyes soften.

“Not at all,” he says. “I think the pink ones are especially lovely.”

“Hah.” Roza wipes at his eye with the back of his thumb. “They are more lavender, I thought.”

“No, they are pink,” Laranthir says. Roza laughs again, or at least he tries to, and he is gifted with a gentle smile.

“Does it help?” Laranthir asks. “Does it make you miss him less, or make it hurt any less?”

“Ah…” Roza glances away. He does not know how to explain that he actually visited the real Trahearne recently, except he was very dead, and he might have torn a small hole in reality to be able to do so, but he might do it again regardless, and also they may be together now, but also not, because one of them _is_ dead, so he really does not know. “It is… complicated. I mean it is a complicated—feeling. The… missing, I mean. Ah.”

He delicately clears his throat. He hopes Laranthir does not question the light flush he can feel heating his bark.

“I… right,” Laranthir replies. “Well, in any case, I have been… seeing someone. Not like that, before you start asking who they are and where they live. She is a mental mender, of sorts. ‘Therapist,’ I think the interracial word is. She has been helping me quite a lot.”

Roza’s expression softens. “That is good,” he says. “I am glad for you.”

“Her name is Muirne,” Laranthir continues. “I think she could perhaps help you as well, if you are open to the idea. She studied in Rata Sum, so her terminology is a bit foreign—well, that may just be me.” He chuckles. “But she has guided me through the difficulties of these past few months. Without her aid, I would be lost.”

“Then she has my eternal gratitude.” Roza reaches out to lightly touch his arm. “I… do not know. I feel as if I am not ready for that yet. But I will consider it, Laranthir. Thank you.”

Laranthir gives him a small smile. “That is all I ask. No one who cares about you will expect you to be happy all the time, Roza. But you should not live your world through shades of grey.”

Roza ducks his head. Laranthir leans back in his seat, and they sit for a few minutes.

Footsteps approach just as Laranthir is counting out coins and Roza is preparing to argue with him about who is paying. They look up, and see Cleonie smiling nervously.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she says. “It’s, um, on the house. For you.”

“Ah.” Laranthir looks surprised. “Thank you, Cleonie. That is very kind of you.”

Roza glances her up and down. She does not seem too bad, he supposes (a little begrudgingly). Pretty enough, if one is into that sort of thing.

“To help you get started, then,” he mutters, and slides a gold coin across the table. “This place is lovely.”

She flushes. “Oh. That is… very kind, Commander.” She curls a leaf behind her ear as Roza raises an eyebrow. “I… figured out who you were. I am sorry about earlier—I didn’t mean to intrude on the two of you.”

Roza blinks at her, freezing his face so it does not make some unflattering expression of stupefaction. Laranthir does no such thing.

“Oh, no,” he sputters. “No, we are not, ah…”

“I have a boyfriend,” says Roza. Laranthir stares.

Cleonie’s eyebrows arch. “Oh.”

“Another one,” he clarifies. “I mean, not Laranthir. Just one. Someone else, who isn’t him.” Thorns. Shut up. “Because I wouldn’t… I mean, if you want, he is…” Nope.

“Roza,” Laranthir begs.

“Available, but if you hurt him I will come find you when you are sleeping and kill you and reanimate your corpse and kill you again, is that clear? Apologies, that was—harsh.” Roza has tripped, stumbled, and is currently in the process of rolling down a hill into a sea of chagrin. “Force of habit. You seem sweet. Laranthir said you were, earlier. Thorns. I am sorry—threats are so much easier to get out.”

“I… see,” Cleonie manages. She looks as if she is trying valiantly not to die on the spot. Laranthir has already buried his head into his arm. Roza has no idea whose humiliation he is feeling—probably a pitiful feedback loop created by the three of them. Mulch, does he wish he were a norn sometimes. Life would be so much easier.

“We should go,” says Roza, getting up.

“Yes!” Laranthir springs to his feet. “I will be seeing you, Cleonie. Ah, Pale Mother guide you.”

“You… as well,” she returns. “But I think I may close the shop to stay with my brother for a few days.”

Laranthir’s face falls. “Oh.”

“We are all technically…” Roza immediately halts that train of thought, even before Laranthir gives him what would be most comparable to a glare, coming from him. “Right. Leaving. Uh… may Raven watch over you.”

He grabs Laranthir’s arm and all but flees the building. Laranthir stumbles behind him, weaving out of the way of any inconvenient chairs or tables.

“We are going somewhere where there are _no_ people,” Roza tells him as soon as they are outside. “There is a little hollow in the grub pits. Come on.”

Laranthir does not protest, only follows him in mostly silence, occasionally pointing out that he is going the wrong way. Roza finds himself once more greatly thankful for his existence.

“Here,” he says when they finally sit down in the dark hollow, settling their backs against cool, hard bark. “The only nice place in the Grove, if you ask me. Filled with friends.”

Laranthir watches as a grub comes up to them and starts to sniff them. “It suits you,” he comments.

Roza smiles. “I _know_ ,” he coos, reaching out and scratching the creature’s slimy cheek. “Hello there, little fellow! Look at you.”

It squirts a noise at him, and then wriggles away. He watches it go fondly.

Laranthir shakes his head with a similar expression, although it is not directed at the grub. “So,” he says. “Did you make up the, ah, boyfriend? Or does he exist?”

Roza’s mouth opens, then closes. “Oh. Um. It is… complicated.”

He tries not to flush. He really does.

Laranthir raises his eyebrows, apparently taking that as a confirmation. He leans forwards to peer at Roza, resting his elbow on his knee. “No, seriously? There is someone?”

“Mhm! Maybe.” Roza has to look away from his growing smile.

“That is good. I am glad you are moving on from… I mean—ah.” Laranthir stops.

Roza winces. “I’m not. Really.”

“No, of course. I did not mean to imply that you were—”

“I was. It is alright, Laranthir. I am… aware of things that I was not back then.” Roza tugs at one of his branches. “I have much more experience with the world, and I can recognize things for what they are. I wish I could have years ago, but…” He sighs. “I suppose now it is too late for regret.”

Laranthir smiles gently, eyes creasing. “If you do not mind me intruding… I believe he had feelings for you as well. He just showed it less, ah…”

“Obviously?” Roza raises a wry eyebrow. “No, I am aware of that too, although thank you for your caution. The manner in which it was first brought to my attention was a bit more, ah, jarring.”

He drags his hand through the soil at his ankles, staring down at it. He looks up again when he feels a light touch on his arm, and it is to kind eyes.

“Are you alright?” Laranthir asks softly.

Thorns, Roza does not deserve a friend like him. “I am,” he replies, briefly touching the hand on his arm. “Thank you, Laranthir. For everything, I mean. I fear I take you for granted.”

“Nonsense.” Laranthir gives him a teasing smile and bumps their shoulders together. Roza ducks his head. “Now… this boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Right. Why had he blurted that out, again? “Um. It is complicated.”

“So you’ve said.” Laranthir gives him a searching look. “What is he like? Is he kind to you?”

Roza blinks at the sternness of his tone. “What, is it something to you?” he asks.

“Well, I do not go around giving people death threats. But I do not see why I shouldn’t keep a watchful eye on my friends. Or siblings.” He nudges Roza’s elbow.

Roza looks at him, surprised. “Oh,” he says. He… had not expected that. “Then… yes, he is very kind. I cannot visit him a lot, though.”

Laranthir frowns. “Does he live far away?”

“You could… say that.” Oh, fuck it. “Well, you know him, actually. Tall, green bark, terrible fashion sense, used to answer to ‘Marshal’…?”

Laranthir stares at him. Roza would laugh at his expression, if he did not feel so nervous.

“I can, ah… pop through the Mists, with some difficulty,” he explains, scratching his cheek. “I’ve been working out the details with Gorrik, but I think I have an idea for a special type of communicator that may not damage... Well anyways, we will see. But Trahearne and I had a little chat, amongst… other things.” He blushes. “So yes, for what it is worth, I consider myself taken.”

Laranthir’s face cycles through an interesting variety of expressions. “That… is…” he manages.

Roza sighs. “I know.”

“Unconventional,” Laranthir finishes. “But the world has never been more upturned than it is nowadays, and you have done nothing but try to help it. Who is anyone to deny you this?”

Roza is hit with an unexpected, dizzying rush of relief. “You are not telling me off for pursuing something like this, or calling me crazy,” he says. His voice is thin and reedy.

Laranthir frowns. “Of course not. Even if you have not done arguably far more reckless and unbelievable nonsense, you are my brother and very dear friend. I will support you no matter what.”

Oh, Roza could _cry_. He will not, however. “Thank you,” he breathes. He—very carefully wraps, and most certainly does not throw—his arms around Laranthir. “Thank you so much. Your approval means more to me than you could—thank you.”

Laranthir squeezes him tightly. “You are more than welcome, Roza. And if you ever need me, whether it is because you need to be vulnerable, or because you are panicking, or even just for a chat— _whatever_ the reason—you come pay me a visit, alright? Promise me.”

“I promise,” Roza swears.

Laranthir’s grip tightens further. “Good,” he says. He sniffles. “Ah, you have turned this romantic’s heart. Which means, of course, that you are obligated to elaborate: what are these ‘other things’ you did with Trahearne?”

Roza opens his mouth, cheeks tinging gold. Laranthir releases him and folds his legs to the side, leaning forwards. “Oh yes,” he says. “If you are going to chase away my prospects, that means I get to live vicariously through you. Now, go on. Spare me no details.”

Roza looks away as his blush deepens. “Well, he kissed me…” he begins, and Laranthir grins.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> and then laranthir bullied him incessantly about his personal life and got revenge for all these years of knowing him the end 
> 
> as always tell me what you think if you would be so kind! <3
> 
> [song for this episode!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NtGgj5zhM84)


End file.
